


Monday night curry

by MajorEnglishEsquire, outpastthemoat



Series: NOODLE SHOP 'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chinese Food, Fluff, M/M, Noodle shop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2021-01-13 07:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21240689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/outpastthemoat/pseuds/outpastthemoat
Summary: “So this is an emergency,” Chuck clarifies.“No,” Sam instantly backtracks, “no, Chuck, I shouldn’t have bothered you, it’s stupid, I don’t know why I-”“This is an emergency,” Chuck repeats.  “So this is what we can do. Noodle Shop, fifteen minutes, I’ll meet you there.”





	Monday night curry

Sam sounds awful on the phone. Chuck hadn’t realized that he knew Sam’s voice so well, but Sam’s voice is in his ear, making banal small-talk about the weather, and Chuck interrupts him to say, “Sam. What’s wrong?”

Sam goes quiet. Then, finally, “My dog died,” he admits in a tiny voice, and oh god, Chuck’s going to cry with him, for him. Sam doesn’t want to suffer this alone, he can tell. And the thing is. He called Chuck. Even though he’s got eight hundred friends on Facebook, even though he spends every weeknight working at the law review and has the number of everyone on staff in his phone. He called Chuck.

“So this is an emergency,” Chuck clarifies. 

“No,” Sam instantly backtracks, “no, Chuck, I shouldn’t have bothered you, it’s stupid, I don’t know why I-”

“This is an emergency,” Chuck repeats. “So this is what we can do. Noodle Shop, fifteen minutes, I’ll meet you there.”

Sam doesn’t say anything for a moment. “It’s only Monday,” he says finally.

“So?”

“It’s not a Tuesday or a Thursday,” Sam says, like Chuck hadn’t realized. 

“That’s okay,” Chuck says. 

“You probably have stuff going on,” Sam says reluctantly but like he’s prepared to let Chuck work to persuade him a while longer. Chuck’s glad to.

“Sam. When have I ever had anything going on?”

Sam doesn’t have an answer.

“Noodle Shop. Fifteen minutes. My treat.”

Sam says, “Okay” and then he says, “Thanks, man,” and Chuck almost melts, right then and there, all over his bedroom carpet, and he knows for the first time what this really is.

  
  
  


Sam’s already there, sitting on the curb and waiting for him. He’s wearing that stupid purple dog shirt that Chuck reluctantly, painfully, absolutely adores. Chuck’s so glad to see him and so sorry to see him like this, all at the same time. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, except he knows this: He would eat Chinese with Sam on a Monday, or a Wednesday, or a Sunday evening. He would eat Chinese with Sam any fucking day of the week. 

“Sam, I’m so sorry,” he says. “What happened?”

Sam shoves his hands into the pockets of his brown jacket and hunches his shoulders. “He was just old,” he says unhappily. “Just old, and my uncle says he couldn’t...he was having accidents in the house, and he was going blind, and then he just stopped getting up out of his bed. And my uncle called and said he thought it was time, and I said okay.”

Chuck doesn’t know what to say. “Sam, I’m sorry,” he says again. 

Sam looks up at him through the hair falling in his eyes, and if Chuck hadn’t already realized what he felt for Sam, he’d have known it then, because something hurts deep in his chest when Sam looks at him like that, with the sun shining down on his face, glowing golden in the light like he’s some kind of Greek god. 

“Thanks for coming,” Sam says.

Chuck wants to stop time, right here and now, and take Sam’s hand and tell him, I would do anything for you, anything you asked, anything I could dream up, and it wouldn’t be enough, Sam, I love you. I love you, and it means I would do anything, go anywhere -- He wants to stop time and bask in the sun that’s shining off Sam and close his eyes and stay like that, forever. 

“Any time,” Chuck says. “Shall we?”

He holds out his hand for Sam to take, if he wants to, and god, oh god, Sam does. He closes his fingers around Chuck’s and uses Chuck’s strength to pull himself up. They walk across the street and stop in front of the door and --

“Fuck,” breaths Chuck. 

MONDAYS CLOSED.

“We’ve never come here on Mondays before,” Sam says, agonized and apologetic.

Chuck is trying to think, but he can’t quite wrap his head around the thought of the noodle shop being closed on any day. It’s an institution. He says so to Sam.

“Even institutions close on Mondays,” Sam says, resigned. “Look - this was a bad idea, I’m sorry I wasted your time, Chuck, let’s just try again tomorrow.”

Chuck’s not a fighter, never has been, he couldn't even muster a single punch when he was-- the last time he was hurt. But today he decides that fuck it. He’s going to fight for this. 

“Sam. SAM,” he says when Sam still hasn’t looked at him. “I don’t want want to try again to tomorrow. I want to hang out with you tonight. I want you to tell me all about your dog, where you found him, his favorite ball. I want to hear about it all. Everything. Tonight.”

Sam looks like he can’t quite believe what Chuck is saying. “How?” he questions.

“There are other restaurants,” Chuck says, and Sam looks amazed. 

“We could do that?”

“I hear other people manage it all the time,” Chuck says.

“Well,” says Sam slowly, “there’s Indian two blocks down.” 

And he’s looking at Chuck through his bangs again, and oh god, Chuck can’t breathe. It doesn’t even matter that he hates Indian food, he’d eat curry seven nights a week just to keep Sam looking at him like that. Even though he knows nothing’s gonna come of it. Sam’s not looking at him because he likes him, or anything. It’s not like Sam’s ever gonna fall in love with him. No one has before. But Chuck gets this. He gets Tuesdays and Thursdays and sometimes Monday night curry. And if that’s all he gets he’ll take it, every second Sam chooses to be with him.

“Anything you want,” Chuck says. “My treat.’


End file.
